September 30, 2008

Last month I switched from using Internet Explorer as my web browser to Google's brand-new Chrome. This was not only faster and cleaner, it made composing this blog so much easier. Then, a few days ago, a problem developed. Postings created in Chrome looked great in that browser, and also in Mozilla Firefox. But were all messed up in Internet Explorer, as I was quickly told by viewers. So I made corrections by opening the compose editior in IE and reworking the Chrome posting. This seems to work.

So, if it looks messed up to you, please leave a comment and I'll try again. I don't know what it will do in Opera, or on Apple Macintosh computers.

September 28, 2008

A recent viewing of Fellini's masterful 1960 film brought back memories of that sweet time when, as assistant to the renowned photographer Richard Avedon, I made my first trip to Europe. It was July 1962 and we were in Paris on assignment to Harper's Bazaar, covering the fall couture collections.

By this time Avedon was widely recognized as perhaps the most innovative fashion photographer ever, even though his passion was for photography itself rather than couture. In fact, he was beginning to question the whole world of fashion, considering it to be narcissistic and meaningless. The 1960 movie dealt with those same themes, probably influencing Avedon in how he would go about photographing the fall fashions. As a paparazzi! Yes, as one of those horrible cameramen that prey on celebrities, seeking and selling scandal. That whole breed was best exemplified in the movie by the character of Paparazzo, the sidekick of the leading man. It was his name that coined the infamous word.

What prompted me to once again watch the movie was a telephone interview I had last month with the BBC in Britain. They were interested in my recollections of one of Avedon's most outrageous photos from that collection. Here's the story:

Sick of pretty, contrived fashion photography, Avedon in 1962 took a novel approach. Enlisting the aid of his friends Suzy Parker (supermodel and budding movie star) and Mike Nichols (comedian and film director), he cast the pair as hot celebrities fleeing the press and gossip mongers. A plot line was conceived, they acted it out, and Avedon caught it all on film. Rather than use his familiar 8x10 camera, he did most of it in 35mm with a telephoto lens, and sometimes with a Rolleiflex TLR. Flash, when used, was right on the camera for a look of immediacy. It was all done in Black & White, as was the movie that inspired it. Suzy wore the fashions, Mike just tagged along. The most famous shot (photo, above) from the entire collection was taken at Maxim's in Paris. It is cropped here because I do not have a copy, and the one the BBC e-mailed me was incomplete and a very poor scan.

It was around this time that he began to look more to portraiture as his true oeuvre.

NEW:

Photography's Golden Age ended long ago but remains very much alive in my memory. From 1952 through 1965 I assisted Avedon during his most creative period, and do I ever have the stories to tell! Now, at the end of 2015, is the time to reveal all, while I'm still alive and kicking. Tales of personalities, motivations, intrigues, and even the fine details of how it was all done.

What I need to make this a reality is a co-conspirator to aid in getting the whole, true, uncensored story published -- either as a book, an e-book, or even a documentary.

September 25, 2008

As a former professional photographer perhaps I shouldn't advertise this, but I've always been attracted to junk cameras. Really junky ones. Here's a history of my addiction:

Back before I was even born, my father purchased a Univex Model A camera (photo, right), which sold in 1933 for the princely sum of 39 cents, plus 10 cents a roll for the size #00 film. Photos made by this beauty were about 1 x 1½ inches in size, although they could be enlarged — but not by much because the lens was none too sharp.

Millions of these were sold during the Great Depression. On the left is a photo of me in 1936, taken by it.

Univex cameras were made by the Universal Camera Corporation of New York, founded by people who knew absolutely nothing about photography. They also made cheap movie cameras and a truly unique 35mm camera, described below. Their business plan was to sell cameras at a loss, but make huge profits from the sale of the special film needed for them, which could not be obtained elsewhere. For a while this worked and Univex prospered. But then World War II cut off their supply of the size 00 film, which was made specially for them by Gevaert in Belgium. Below is a late 30s ad for their products:

At some point in the late 1930s my dad moved upscale, photographically speaking, with the purchase of a Kodak Baby Brownie Special, seen on the right. This used size 127 Verichrome Black & White film, which was readily available. Made of shiny black Bakelite, it was a thing of beauty that produced decent snapshots and was so easy to use that even I as a pre-schooler could use it, as demonstrated by me on the left around 1939.

When the war ended and production of civilian cameras resumed, he bought one of the first halfway decent ones available. In 1946, at the age of 12, I inherited his old Baby Brownie Special and began my illustrous photo career. Within a year I had a darkroom built around a Sears "Marvel" developing set bought by mowing lawns.

That Mercury II(photo, right) that my dad bought in 1946, and which I still have, was a really strange camera. Like the Univex described above, it was made by the Universal Camera Corporation. That half-circular protrusion on its top housed a rotary shutter which limited its image size to half-frame, yielding 65 exposures to a roll of 36-exposure film. Thrifty yes, but quality-wise not so hot. Color film was returned from the processor unmounted, unlike regular full-frame 35mm slides that came ready for the projector. So he had the onerous job of putting all those little photos in special mounts.

The Mercury II had interchangeable lenses; my dad's was equipped with a 35mm f/2.7 Tricor and had shutter speeds up to 1/1000 second. Amazingly for the times, it had a "hot shoe" flash clip for the optional flashbulb attachment. I still have this camera although the shutter speeds seem slow — perhaps it just needs some oil!

The Universal Camera Corporation struck again in 1947 with yet another offbeat snapshot maker. For Christmas that year, at age 13, I was given a Meteor viewfinder camera with some strange features. It used #620 film, producing 12 exposures of 2¼"x2¼" per roll. The acromat lens adjusted from f/11 to f/22 (!), shutter speeds were Instant or Bulb, there was a tripod socket, and focus was from 5' to infinity. The lens mount collapsed for easier carrying. And to top it off, there was an extinction-type exposure "meter" in which the most visible number in the finder determined which f/stop to use. Well, the results were not too bad, but within a year I yearned for something better. Something that used 35mm film. The size 620 film was a bit expensive for my allowance, and war surplus 35mm bulk film was dirt cheap, like $1 for a 100' roll, from which you could fill 20 used cartridges of 36 exposures each.

As a 15th birthday gift, in 1949, I received what I really wanted: A Bolsey B 35mm rangefinder camera. This could only marginally be considered "junk," as it was very well made and extremely rugged, but had no flash syncronization (corrected in a later model) and a mediocre lens. It was designed by the same genius who created the Bolex movie and Alpa still cameras, both Swiss. Dozens (possibly hundreds) of rolls of war-surplus film went through it during my high-school years, and it was later used by my younger brother. I still have it, although it no longer works.

At age 18, in 1952, I left home to work as an assistant to the famous photographer Richard Avedon, so I was off "junk" cameras for a while, having just bought a professional Rolleiflex TLR. But not for long. By 1957 I was in the Army (draft and all that!), stationed in Tokyo, so I felt the need for a 35mm camera to record that little adventure. With my meager earnings, I bought a Petri Automate at the PX for less than $50. Made by the Kuribayashi Camera Company, it had an a really "fast" 45mm f/1.9 Orikkor lens, a lever film advance, flash sync for both X and M, automatic counter, combined view-and-range finder, and a rapid rewind crank. This was "junk" only in the sense that it lacked such professional capabilities as interchangeable lenses. Now over 50 years old, it still seems to work but has not seen film in the last three decades. Maybe someday.

Within a year I wanted something better, and acquired a Nikon S-3 rangefinder camera with three lenses including a fast 50mm f/1.4 beauty. Oh, how I wish that I hadn't traded it for a Canon SLR back in 1961!

After my business partner and I opened our own studio in 1965, all of our cameras were thoroughly professional, including Nikon F and F2s, Hasselblad 500ELs, and the like. But then, just for fun, we bought a Kodak Instamatic F-15 to record our location jobs in snapshots. This was a hoot to use, especially with the rotating "Magicube" flash thingy on top. It sold in 1970 for $21 and used size #126 color negative film. The single optic was a non-adjustable 43mm f/11 lens. It always worked.

In 1974 I purchased a rather expensive Polaroid SX-70 camera, whose entire design was just stunning. It folded flat and could easily be slipped into a coat pocket, yet produced fair-size images via a complex single-lens reflex design with internal mirrors. Regardless of its cost and sophistication, it was really only good for snapshots (some artists will disagree with me on that!). To use, you simply inserted a film pack that also contained the operating battery, opened the thing up, focused the scene, and pushed the red button. Moments later your photo was ejected, which finished developing a few moments later. A bar of tiny flashbulbs could be stuck above the lens for nightime shooting. Although it appeared to be made of brushed stainless steel, it was actually a plastic body with fake leather inserts.

Another toy from that time was my Minox IIIs spy camera. This used a special cartridge of 9.5mm film, producing images of 8 x 11 mm. One great feature of this tiny (really tiny) camera was its ability to focus so closely that entire Top Secret documents could be copied by spies, with the camera then hidden away in the heel of a shoe. Normally, you had to send the film away for processing, but I wanted to do that myself. For years, every time I visited the darkroom department at Willoughby's photo emporium on New York's West 32nd Street, I saw a Minox developing tank on the shelf. Now, when I went to buy it there was just one customer ahead of me. Guess what he bought? And that was the last one — they were no longer made. I finally found a used one at another shop. Anyway, developing the film was no problem, but fitting those teeny negatives into a regular enlarger was, with barely okay results. So I hardly ever used it, and later sold it for much more than I had originally paid.

My next non-professional camera was much too good to be considered junk, but it was really designed for casual snapshots, not serious photography. The Rollei 35S was about as small as a 35mm camera could possibly be, and easily fit into a pocket when the lens was retracted. Yet it had an excellent Sonnar lens made under license from Zeiss. Several of the photos used in my books were taken with it. Although the first models were made in Germany in 1966, this and others came from Rollei's Singapore plant.

Strangely, the flash hotshoe was on the bottom, making it necessary to hold the camera upside down to take flash pictures. The rewind crank was also on the bottom, with the film advance lever on the top but on the "wrong" side of the all-metal body. But the biggest annoyance was loading the thing.

Not to be outdone by Rollei, Minox in 1974 introduced the cute little Minox 35, another itsy-bitsy ultra-compact full-frame 35mm camera with a 35mm f/2.8 Minotar lens housed in a fiberglass-and-plastic body. It had automatic, aperture-priority exposure with manual scale focussing. Opening the front panel caused the retracted lens to pop into position; that is, as long as the delicate hinges didn't break. Mine did. Still, this was a decent snapshot camera if handled with care.

Now for a real piece of junk. In the mid-1990s I bought a genuine Ansco Pix Panorama camera, which produced wide screen photos on 35mm film by the simple expedient of cropping off the top and bottom of each frame. Oh well, it only cost a few dollars at the local drugstore. It had what was probably a 20mm lens — hardly panoramic but still quite wide angle — and produced not-overly-sharp pictures with interesting edge distortion. In its defence, some serious artists used it creatively, fully exploiting its very miserableness.

And what of the junk cameras of today? Why, they're digital, of course. I have sought out and found a truly crappy one that serves three functions: as a still camera, as a video camera, and as a computer digi-cam. Oh yes, and also as a keychain. A very good keychain. Best of all, the Vivitar Mini Digital Camera only cost $10 at Walgreens, complete with software, usb cable, battery, and a carrying case. The whole thing can be concealed in the palm of your hand. Does it work? Well, sort of. My self-portrait below was taken with it yesterday.

FILM PHOTOGRAPHERS REJOICE! Much of the old stuff, including Panthermic 777 developer and 127 B&W film is still available. CLICK HERE.

September 18, 2008

Here's another sample chapter from my new guidebook, Daytrips Austria. This one-day adventure from Salzburg will be especially welcome on a hot summer day as it takes you deeply underground into a fantasy world of eternally frozen ice.

Trip 17

Eisriesenwelt

A Daytrip from Salzburg

The Eisriesenwelt cave system, whose name literally means "World of the Ice Giants," is one of the strangest sights in Austria. This is actually the largest complex of caves in Europe, with over 25 miles of interconnecting caverns explored so far. Perched some 5,460 feet above sea level and 3,280 feet above the valley floor, it is a short 28 miles south of Salzburg. Nearly the first mile of the caves is perpetually frozen into a wonderland of fantastic ice formations, some of which may date from the last Ice Age. Eisriesenwelt is indeed regarded as the greatest ice cave in the world, whose proximity to Salzburg has long made it a popular — if chilly — daytrip destination.

The ice is formed as a result of unique ventilation conditions in the cave. During the winter months cold winds cause the water trickling down from the plateau above to freeze. In summer, the flow of air is reversed, so that the warm air does not enter, hence the caves remain eternally frozen. Even on hot summer days, the inside temperature is always below freezing.

An additional attraction is Burg Hohenwerfen, a dramatically-situated fortress with falconry shows and medieval dungeons.

GETTING THERE:

Trains of all classes depart Salzburg's main station (Hauptbahnhof) fairly frequently in the morning for the under-one-hour ride to Werfen. Return service operates until mid-evening.

By Car, take the A-10 Tauern Autobahn to the Werfen exit, then highway B-159 into Werfen. It is possible to drive up to the parking lot near the lower station of the cable car, thus avoiding a taxi or bus ride.

PRACTICALITIES:

The cave is closed between late October and the end of April, while the fortress has a slightly longer season. Be sure to bring warm clothes, sturdy shoes, and possibly gloves as you will be spending over an hour at freezing temperatures. Photography or videotaping is forbidden as it disrupts the tour presentation. This trip should not be taken by claustrophobic or physically handicapped persons and is not suitable for very young children. An early start is recommended. A few miles of outdoor walking are involved, so if it looks like rain bring an umbrella. You will be supplied with a lantern to find your way underground.

For further information, contact the Werfen Tourist Office at Markt 24 in Werfen, T: (06468) 5388, W: werfen.at or eisriesenwelt.at.

FOOD AND DRINK:

Obauer (Markt 46 in Werfen) One of the very finest restaurants in all of Austria, with creative Austrian cuisine. Reservations essential, T: (06468) 5212-12), W: Obauer.com. €€€+

Dr.0edl-Haus (by the upper cable car station) A rustic Alpine chalet with indoor and outdoor tables, a great view, and traditional Austrian fare. Open same times as the cave. T: (06468) 5248-12, W: oedlhaus.at. €

SUGGESTED TOUR:

Numbers in parentheses correspond to numbers on the map.

From the Werfen Train Station (1) it is only a short walk across the river to Werfen's main square(Markt) (2), where you can board a minibus that takes you to a parking lot halfway up the mountain. Be sure to arrange for a return ride at the same time. It is also possible to board this at the train station instead, but there are fewer departures. Those with cars can drive to the parking lot, bearing in mind that the road is quite steep and somewhat difficult to negotiate. You could also hike the distance, about four miles with a 1,200-foot climb if you're up to it, but in that case plan on taking a late train back.

However you get to the parking lot (3) you now walk for 15 minutes along a beauitiful path to the lower station(Seilbahn Talstation) (4) of the cable car, where refreshments are available. Purchase a combination ticket (Kombinierter Tarif) that includes the cave tour, and board the cable car for a very steep 5-minute ascent to the upper station.

Adjacent to the upper station(Bergstation) is the Dr.-Oedl-Haus (5), a rustic Alpine retreat with good, inexpensive meals and cheap overnight accommodations. This is where you are assembled into groups for the cave tour.

The groups leave more or less hourly for the 15-minute uphill walk to the cave entrance (Höhleneingang). There they are met by a guide and outfitted with lanterns as there is no lighting in the caves other than an occasional magnesium flare used by the guide to highlight certain features. When the door is opened, there is a tremendous gush of cold air as you fight your way into the large underground hall; then a sudden stillness.

Steps lead from the entrance hall to the enormous Posselt-Halle, named after the person who first entered it in 1879. You then climb up the Grosser Eiswall (big ice wall) that runs across the entire width of the cave. The first man to overcome this barrier and thus be able to explore the miles of caves beyond was Alexander von Mork, who accomplished this feat in 1913 along with two companions.

Beyond the ice wall a long, narrow corridor leads into the magnificent Hymir Halle with its fantastic ice formations such as the Schloss Hymir and the Ice Organ. You are then led through the Thrym Halle and up a drafty air passage to the shimmering frozen curtains of the Ice Gateway, followed by the *Alexander von Mork Cathedral, the largest chamber in the cave. A white marble urn in a recess there contains the ashes of von Mork, who perished in World War I.

The Ice Palace lies beyond this, a half-mile from the entrance and as far into the caves as the tour goes before beginning the downhill journey to the entrance. Spelunkers might be interested in arranging for a private tour extending much farther into the subterranean labyrinth.

Emerge into the daylight and stroll back to the Dr.-Oedl-Haus (5), where you can stop for a much-deserved drink, snack, or meal. From here retrace the route back to Werfen (2), where you might want to hike or drive uphill for about a mile (or take the new elevator from the village) to another worthwhile attraction:

First built in 1077 to guard the valley approach to Salzburg, this mighty fortress was destroyed in a peasant uprising in 1525 and reconstrucyed to its present form later in the 16th century. Several falconry shows are presented daily against a backdrop of towering mountains. The tour includes visits to a special exhibition, a falconry museum, a chapel, an arsenal, and — of course — the dungeons.

September 16, 2008

On earlier posts I described many of the great places that I had the good fortune to visit during my time in the U.S. Army, stationed in Tokyo from 1957 through 1959. Five years later I was itching to revisit them. How to do this within my limited budget?

Opportunity struck!

In the summer of 1964, while working for the famous photographer Richard Avedon, I was sent on one of several missions to Paris, with an additional assignment in Spain. My annual vacation began as soon as this ended. So, for a few dollars more, I was able to exchange the airfare tickets (roundtrip NewYork/Paris/Madrid/Malaga/Madrid/Paris/New York) for a "Round the World" ticket with unlimited stops in one direction only. This was on Air France.

Japan at the time was still a relatively cheap place to visit, especially with a strong dollar, so I could afford good hotels, meals, and local transportation. To do this today would cost a great deal more.

The Spain gig done, I hastened to Paris to connect with an Air France flight to Tokyo via the Middle East, India, and Saigon. But trouble was brewing in Vietnam, so I changed to a Polar flight on Japan Air Lines, with stops in Copenhagen and Anchorage. I still have my certificate of having crossed the North Pole, which was just a sheet of white. Sadly, there was no pole to be seen although soon after that I was able to make out Point Barrow, Alaska.

Arriving at Tokyo's Haneda Airport a day early due to the faster flight, I was told that my reservation at the Dai-Ichi Hotel had been changed to JAL's own Nikko Hotel just off the Ginza. This was a little disappointing as I had sometimes stayed at the Dai-Ichi on weekends during my army service and had fond memories of it, but the Nikko was actually a better hotel.

Prior to leaving home, a Japanese friend (and my counterpart at a rival New York studio), Tad Wakamatsu, had put me in touch with his wife, who ran a travel agency in the heart of Tokyo. So the first thing I did was to meet up with her, and then have dinner at her house in the suburbs. She planned a wonderful itinerary for me, which I started right after a two-day orgy of buying cameras and lenses (prices then were much cheaper than in New York). The purchases included a Canon 35mm SLR with three lenses, including one of those newfangled zoom jobs, a Nikonos 35mm underwater camera, and a Mamiya 6x9cm press camera. They all got used in the next few days. Another Japanese friend of mine in New York, photographer Hiro Wakabayashi, had arranged for me to meet with a Tokyo advertising agency to check out their operations. They then took me out for dinner, and I actually ate some shark meat!

My travels into unfamiliar territory began a few days later. Leaving my bags at the hotel and travelling as lightly as possible, I took a train to Nagoya, changing there for a local to Ise City, the entrance way to the Ise-Shima National Park and the most sacred Shinto shrine in Japan. I had reservations at a luxurious ryokan, or Japanese inn, where you remove your shoes and western clothes, replacing the latter with a yukata (sort of a light-weight kimono). My tatami-matted room overlooked the sea. Just how luxurious a place this was first became apparent when a maid appeared to make and serve my dinner, and was reinforced when she silently signaled me to follow her down the hall and opened the sliding door to a fabulous suite — as it turned out, this was reserved for the exclusive use of Emperor Hirohito when he visited the holy site.

In the morning I was taken down to the inn's private dock and put aboard a motorboat, along with some student guides. They took me to Jingu, the Grand Shrine of Ise. There are several temples here, the most important being the Outer Shrine(Toyouke-Daijingu) and the even more important Inner Shrine(Kotaijingu). Both of these are torn down every 20 years and rebuilt on an adjacent site, signifying the circle of death and renewal. The last renewal before my visit was in 1953, the 59th time they were completely rebuilt from the ground up. The Inner Shrine is where the Sacred Mirror of the imperial regalia is kept, and is home to Amaterasu, the sun goddess and highest deity in the Shinto religion. Visitors may see the outer buildings here and partake of the water purification ritual (photo, above), but are limited to glimpses of the main shrine, the holy of holies, which is reserved for priests and the Imperial Family.

From there we travelled to nearby Toba and the Mikimoto Pearl Island, where cultivated pearls are raised and harvested. Visitors to Mikimoto's Museum can watch as women divers (Ama) (photo, below) seed the oysters and three years later retrieve the pearls, of which only a very small percentage are of "gem" quality.

Then it's on by train along the Kii Peninsula coast to Wakayama, from which other locals took me via Hashimoto to Gokuraku-bashi at the foot of the sacred mountain of Koyasan. A cable car took me up to the town and complex of some 120 Buddhist temples. 53 of these offer sleeping accommodations for visitors, complete with vegetarian meals and contemplation. My plan was to stay overnight in one of these to experience this ancient religion, at least in part. But then the heavens opened up and a real downpour ensued. At least I got to use my new Nikonos underwater camera for the picture on the right!

After getting thoroughly soaked, I found shelter in a bar, had a few beers, and headed back to the cable car.

At the bottom I boarded a train to Osaka, arriving there a day before my hotel reservation, but all was okay and they had room for me.

The first site to visit was Osaka Castle, begun in 1583, destroyed in a military coup between rival armies in 1615, and rebuilt in 1629. Again destroyed in 1868 to prevent it from falling into the hands of the Meiji Restoration, it lay in ruin until a complete rebuilding in 1931 as a matter of national pride, using modern construction techniques.

That evening I took a subway to the notorious Dotonbori entertainment district, had dinner, and slept well before leaving Japan's second city.

Back on schedule, I headed by train for the long haul to Miyajima, stopping at Hiroshima along the way. From the tracks there I could clearly see the A-Bomb Dome, the only ruin left standing from the nuclear holocaust of August 6, 1945. Just a year or so earlier, in New York, I had met the pilot of one of the B-29 bombers on that nulcear nightmare.

A local train from Hiroshima and a small ferry took me to Miyajima Island on the Inland Sea, one of the loveliest spots in all Japan. There I stayed at a traditional ryokan inn, which fortunately was air-conditioned as we were pretty far south and this was late August. A short walk took me into a Deer Park, where the tame deer come right up to you. The most striking sight at Miyajima is the spectacular Torii Gate of 1875 (photo, left), rising some 50 feet above the water, 500 feet from shore. Beyond this, built on stilts in A.D. 593 and rebuilt many times, the last being in the 16th century, is the Itsukushima Jinga Shrine, parts of which can be visited.

Returning the next day to Hiroshima, I took a train direct to Kyoto, the ancient capital of Japan and presently a great cultural center. My reservation was for the International Hotel, but my taxi driver had never heard of that. Then I remembered the word for "International" and said to him: "Hoteru Kokusai, dozo." This worked, and minutes later I entered under a big sign in English that read "International Hotel."

I had been to Kyoto before, on an almost comical little adventure in 1957 (CLICK HERE TO SEE), and also returned later while on assignment for Pan Am Airways in 1971 (CLICK HERE TO SEE). But I saw much more on this trip than both of those times combined.

Through the hotel I was able to engage a taxi with an English-speaking driver for the entire day, who took me around to all the places I wanted to see, quickly and in comfort. They were:

First, the Old Imperial Palace. Originally built in the 8th century, it was destrpyed by fire in the 19th, and rebuilt in 1855. This was home to the emperors of Japan until they moved to Tokyo, then called Edo. The new name of To-Kyo (Capital of the East) is a reversal of the characters for Kyo-To. The main hall, the Shishinden, was used for ceremonies such as the enthronement of emperors. Although overwhelming in its size, the palace was not quite as impressive as some of the other sights, possibly as I had been here before in 1957.

The next stop was Kinkakuji Temple (photo, right), better known as the Golden Pavilion. This was first built in 1393 as a retirement home for a shogun, but converted to a temple upon his death. It became a victim of arson in 1950, and in 1955 was rebuilt and covered with gold leaf, making a truly striking sight as seen reflected in the pond beneath it.

To experience the ideal of Zen Buddhism you could hardly do better than to visit the next stop, the nearby Ryoanji Temple. The temple itself is of little interest, but the "garden" is world-famous for its austere aesthetics and the ability it affords visitors to contemplate the meaning of completeness. It consists of a rectangular plot covered in raked sand and 15 rocks in groupings of 3, 5, and 7. There is no vegetation, just sand and rocks. From the veranda, only 14 rocks can be seen from any one position; by shifting this another appears to complete the scene.

From here it was a bit of a haul to the renowned Moss Garden of Kokedera at the foot of the Arashiyama Hill. Its Saihoji Temple dates from the middle of the 8th century, but the real attraction is the eight-acre garden covered with more than 120 species of moss, set in a thickly wooded landscape that gives the feeling of entering a strange, magic forest. Fittingly, the pond here is in the shape of the Japanese character for Spirit.

Heading back toward town, I next visited the Katsura Imperial Villa in the western suburbs. Often regarded as a perfect triumph of the gardening and architectural arts, Katsura consists of a palace in the traditional style, plus several detached pavilions scattered throughout a forest surrounding a pond (photo, right) with five islands. It was built in the early 17th century.

Heading east clear across town, my last stop by taxi was to the Sanju-sangen-do Hall with its 1,001 statues of Kannon, the godess of Mercy. Its name is Japanese for the number 33, the number of likenesses the godess can asume. With all those statues, a total of 33,033 shapes are possible.

I then returned to the hotel for dinner and and a good night's sleep for my exhausted self.

The next morning, before leaving Kyoto, I made one last visit. This was to Nijo Castle, directly across the street from my hotel. You can't miss this place. Built in 1603 to demonstrate the sheer political power that the Tokugawa Shogunate Government wielded over the Emperor and his Imperial Family, it is a massive fortress whose many rooms are filled with blatant ostentation. A curious feature here are the squeaking floors in the corridors that made it impossible for potential assassins to get to the inner rooms without being detected; a sort of early alarm system.

Later that day I boarded a train for Tokyo, where I would begin two weeks of daytrips in and around the city and well into the surrounding countryside. I'll tell you all about that in another post. Stay tuned.

September 10, 2008

When I first joined the Avedon Studio in September 1952, there was no music and only a small Vornado fan to make fashions blow a little bit. After the move to East 49th Street in 1954 a Columbia Hi-Fi LP Record Player was added to enliven the sittings with mostly show tunes and jazz. That little fan soon gave way to a larger one mounted on a dolly, and the fashion shots showed much more movement.

Somewhere along the line, probably after moving to East 58th Street, we discovered the fabulously effective Mole Richardson Wind Machine (photo, above), long a standard tool in Hollywood movie studios. This device puts just as much wind as you want, exactly where you want it and nowhere else.

To further liven things up, at Dick's request I replaced the record player with a stereo amplifier, a Garrard record changer, and two large wall-mounted speakers just behind the camera position and aimed at the set. This set the mood with music by such performers as Sinatra, Fitzgerald, Satchmo, Miles Davis, Brubeck and others, along with Broadway tunes.

It all worked out so well that when I and my business partner opened our own studio in 1965, one of the first things we bought was the same model Mole Richardson Wind Machine — despite its almost outrageous cost. Along with this we installed a powerful amplifier, record changer, and really huge speakers, playing mostly rock, especially Beatles, Stones, Doors, Pink Floyd and others.

September 06, 2008

A few months ago TypePad, my blog service provider, switched to a new "Compose Editor." This is where you compose your blog prior to putting it online. Complaints poured in. Although it allowed many more options in layout and typography, it was exceedingly slow for some of us, including me. I complained several times. Their first answer was to switch from dial-up to a high-speed connection, which I did. Unhappily, there was no improvement in composing, although a vast one in other aspects. So I complained again, and was told that they were "working on it."

Then, this week Google (bless them!) announced a new web browser to compete with Microsoft's Internet Explorer, Firefox, Netscape, Opera, and all the others. So I did the free download. What a difference! Now I'm having absolutely no problem with TypePad's new Compose Editor.

There are are other benefits as well. It seems to be faster, has a cleaner interface, and is much better organized. Now, I am no computer geek and know (and care!) absolutely nothing about programming. That is why I have a blog instead of a regular website. Blogs are really simple — if you can type you can blog. And Chrome makes TypePad's Compose Editor work the way it's supposed to.

September 01, 2008

It's been said that an army marches on its stomach. How true. In the case of us ASA guys at Oji Camp in the 1950s those stomachs were often filled with beer, glorious beer. On post, at the EM club (photo, right), we could get the best of European brews for 25 cents a bottle, served with live entertainment. Needless to say, we took full advantage of that bargain. Pictured below are some of the brands they stocked:

These are labels that I pulled off the wet bottles way back when. A bit ratty from age, but still a nice keepsake. My favorite was San Miguel, which was not European but came from Manila in the Philippines. Years later I also encountered the same brand in Madrid, Spain.I was also fond of Holsten Lager from Hamburg in Germany.

Things were a bit different out on the local Japanese economy, where the following brews were usually served at such places as the Germania, just off the Ginza in downtown Tolkyo:

And who could forget Sapporo, that tasty brew from frozen Hokkaido? Sadly, I don't have a label for it, just memories.